#kryptonscout

enjoy!

Clint nearly slipped on the card, narrowly avoiding doing so at the last minute with an awkward hop jump that was neither dignified nor necessarily attractive. Rubbing the back of his neck, Clint stooped to bring up the foot print smudged envelope. Whoops.

Opening it, however, Clint's eyes widened and the bow he'd had slung over his shoulder slid off to clatter on the floor. Startled, Lucky whined and tilted his head. Absently, Clint reached out to offer a comforting ear scritch even as he read and reread the card. "Holy shit, Lucky."

Superman.

Fucking Superman himself knew not only who he was but knew enough about him to know where he lived. Which, wasn't super surprising considering Kon was over here just yesterday beating his ass at Mario Kart.

But there was something about knowing one of your idols knew you enough to send a card and spell your name right. (Not that Hawkeye was hard to spell, but still, but still.) Because there was something to knowing that the epitome of all that was right about his profession saw him and deem him, Hawkeye, enough to acknowledge.

Giddiness bubbled up in him and despite the fact he was thirty-something Clint spun like a kid, card held to his chest. Moving to the fridge to magnetize it to the door with a beam of pride in his heart.

Hand moving for his phone, he immediately pulled up the group text and sent off a photo of the tickets and the signature in the background.

“First a journalist, now a docent? Quite the eclectic resume you have there, Kent.”

     Luthor extends his hand in greeting, watching with amusement as the other man proceeds to fumble with the stacks of pamphlets and papers ( some of which had notes scribbled in the margins, Luthor noticed ) he was carrying in order to accept the handshake. How quaint. “Or maybe old Perry is more of a taskmaster than I had originally given him credit for,” he muses aloud, flashing Clark the slightest smirk. 

“May I?” The question is merely a formality; Luthor unceremoniously takes the now somewhat jumbled heap of pamphlets out of Clark’s arms, selecting one to look over while he straightens out the rest. “Hm, I thought I told them to go with the gloss finish... Well, no matter.” He glances back up at the other man. “I must say, I’m glad that you’re the one giving me a tour and not one of the emporium’s directors or — God forbid — a member of their public relations department; they tend to put on airs whenever a substantial donor like myself comes around.”

     Something flickers in Luthor’s eyes as he continues. “You, on the other hand, I can trust to be genuine — if only because you’re incapable of being anything else. Not a quality I’d expect in a reporter, admittedly, but it seems to have gotten you this far. I just wouldn’t recommend you enter any poker tournaments any time soon,” he jests.

“And whose fault is that, hmmm?”

     Luthor continues to gaze out at the absolutely picturesque skyline of Metropolis from atop his penthouse balcony, the hard edges of her ivory towers momentarily softened by the warm glow of the sun as it sets on the horizon. He brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag, tilting his head back to release a small cloud of smoke into the air; Luthor's chest swells with satisfaction when it manages to reach Superman’s face before fully dissipating, but as expected, the alien doesn’t react.

     He simply looks down his nose at Luthor with his arms crossed against his chest, that ridiculous cape silently rippling behind him.

“I’ve no intention of inviting you in for tea, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” Luthor says, keeping his voice even despite his growing agitation at being looked down upon, be it literally or figuratively — and Superman was one of the few beings capable of doing both at the same time. He knows why the Big Blue Boyscout is paying him a visit: the recent break-in at S.T.A.R. Labs. And he knows the alien is currently scrutinizing him in hopes of finding any indication that Luthor was the one behind it.

     He also knows Superman is wasting his time.

“Besides,” Luthor goes on, leaning against the banister to resume looking down at his city, “shouldn’t you be off rescuing cats out of trees, or whatever it is you do?”

: /